Imperfect Affections

We finish our lunch early. My mom insists on rinsing the dishes and packing the dishwasher.

When I greet her at the door, she says in a lowered voice, “I’m very happy to see you slept in the same bed last night, but do make the bed in the morning. You don’t want your husband to come home to an untidy house.”

She’s referring to the fact that the covers in the spare bedroom were undisturbed. I flush, but not for the reason she assumes.

Winking, she blows me a kiss and waltzes to her car, as light on her feet as if walking on a cloud.

Zelda waves from across the street where she’s bent over a flower bed with a gardening spade clutched in an orange garden-gloved hand.

I return her wave and wait until my mom has turned the corner before locking the door.

Silence wraps around me.

Needing to keep busy, I strip the bed and put clean linen on. Then I do the laundry and vacuum the floors. I’m used to the cleaning. Like drawing, it helps to clear my head.

When my hip aches from going up and down the stairs, I settle with my laptop at Leon’s desk and fill out job applications at online recruitment companies.

By the time I close my laptop, it’s dark outside. Like last night, there’s no sign of Leon. I swim a few laps, have a shower, and dress in a comfy T-shirt and lounge pants. I’m brushing out my hair in front of the mirror in the dressing room when laughter reaches me through the window.

I walk over and peer down. Zelda and a man with graying hair and a mustache—Sam, I presume—are sitting on a swing bench on the porch of their house, Zelda with a glass of water in her hand and Sam with a beer. Candles are lit on the low wall, and Chinese takeout boxes are stacked on the table.

Their chatter is animated. He says something that makes her laugh. She punches him on the shoulder before climbing onto his lap. He cups her head and drags her closer, kissing her with the utmost gentleness.

Something pinches in my chest.

I close the curtains, not wanting to pry on their private moment.

That something in my chest that makes it difficult to breathe dislodges and drifts to the surface, staring me right in the face.

Envy.